Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (5 page)

“Two hours, at least,” piped up Peters.

“Really? I spent two fuckin' hours in the fuckin' VIP room with those fuckin' losers and fuckin' skanks?” Steve feigned shock. “Two hours? That would be $500 to each.”

“Fine,” Ned peeled ten hundreds off his wad of cash and distributed them to Peters and Rautins.

“Alright then, now comes the matter of Mr. Lessard and Mr. Johansson,” Steve said. “They provided essential security—$700 each.”

Ned did as he was told.

“And, of course, we cannot forget our good friend, Mr. Williams,” Steve motioned to the man sitting next to him, who made no indication there was anyone in the room other than himself and Steve. “For various services rendered, $1,500.” Mr. Williams made no noise or gesture other than stick the index finger of his right hand up. Steve corrected himself. “My apologies, I meant two thousand dollars.”

“What did he do?” Ned protested.

“Profoundly important things you are not yet privileged to know about.”

For the first time, Mr. Williams acknowledged Ned. He swiveled in his chair and faced him. Ned couldn't see through the lenses on Mr. Williams' sunglasses, but the older man appeared to be staring him down. Ned had no choice, he passed the man two thousand in cash. Mr. Williams then shook Steve's hand and left without a word.

“Be grateful,” Steve admonished Ned.

“I guess that just leaves you and Dario . . . ”

Gagliano stood up and addressed Steve. “I think it would be more appropriate for Ned to settle up with me at a later date.”

“Wise,” said Steve. Then he stood up and sat on his desk, facing Ned. He leaned in so that their faces were just a few inches apart. “As far as I'm concerned, you're just gonna have to do me a couple of little favors . . . ”

“Like what?”

“I need to hear you say it 's over between you and her,” Steve growled.

“It is.”

“Then you won't mind if I send a couple of guys to your house to remove all her stuff.”

“Uh . . . no, of course not . . . where ya gonna put it?”

“Anywhere you want, just not your house—you okay with her parents? No, wait, Mallory's her best friend, right? How about her place?”

It occurred to Ned that giving Kelli's stuff to Mallory (who worked for Steve) would keep her uncomfortably close, but he didn't mention it. Instead, he said: “Yeah, yeah, sure.”

“If I ever see you with her again, you may just never see her again.”

“
Her
?”

“Yeah,” Steve said adamantly. “She's the problem, not you . . . unless you really are, because if you are, tell me now.”

“I'm not.”

“Who is?”

“She is.”

“Y 'know, I spent some time in Texas, and the bikers down there have a saying that sums up this situation pretty well. They say, ‘Jesus hates a pussy,'” Steve said. “To make sure you remember your promise, you're going to get a tattoo that says ‘J H A P'—Mack will hook you up.”

Ned agreed.

“Right, now we can proceed.”

Steve stood up, and went back behind his desk. He took something out of the top drawer that Ned didn't see, and held it behind his back. Steve grinned broadly, stood up, and walked slowly behind Ned. “You really, really fucked up last night . . . you know that?”

“Yes, yes, I do.”

“No, no, no, no, you don't understand . . . you really, really, really, fucked up,” Steve said, running his left hand through Ned's hair. Ned could hear Gagliano laugh.

“Look, Steve, I killed a man last night. I realize I fucked up.”

Steve laughed. “Oh, killing a man—at least that man—is not a big deal,” he said, patting Ned's chest with his left hand. “He was an asshole; maybe he didn't deserve to die at that moment, but it was going to happen sooner or later . . . trust me.”

Gagliano laughed first; the others joined in soon thereafter.

“No, no, no, no, the problem was not that a man died; the problem was that things were going along according to plan and your lack of backbone fucked it all up.” By this time Steve had his head on Ned's shoulder and his big left arm around his neck.

They all stopped laughing.

“But you are never ever going to do that again—never ever going to fuck up my plans ever again are you?” Before Ned could answer, Steve loosened his grip on his neck, patted Ned on the chest and stood back up. “You won't be able to—because of this.” He whipped out what he had hidden behind his back. Ned jumped. Everyone else in the room laughed uproariously.

It was the top rocker for his Death Dealer's patch. Ned was shocked. “What . . . what does this mean?”

“It means I want you to be a Death Dealer—full member,” Steve said, and shook Ned's hand. “You showed me a lot of things last night—you can use force when necessary, you kept your mouth shut, you did what you had to do . . . and you didn't piss your pants a minute ago.” Again the other bikers laughed. Steve smiled to them and got back behind his desk. “Look, you have always been a good earner and a sharp kid. I wanted you to be a Death Dealer right from the start, but there was always one problem.” He looked Ned directly in the eyes. “With her gone, you're now free to be the man you can be . . . and don't worry about women. I can get you all you want.”

“So am I really a Death Dealer?”

“Yep. After—what's it been?—a year or so of prospective membership, you made it,” Steve slapped him on the back. “With one little condition—and I don't have to tell you what that is again, do I?”

“Well, that's . . . that's great,” Ned said. He was genuinely happy. “But I was told that there had to be a vote for a prospect to get a full patch.”

“You are confusing the Death Dealers with the Sons of Satan, my friend,” Steve looked angry again. “I'm a Son of Satan. I went through all that bullshit; but I am president of the Death Dealers—we play by my rules.” He stood up again, as he delivered his homily. “If I say you are a member, then you are a member.” Then he smiled and looked at all the other men in the room. “Okay, fine, we'll have it his way,” he said. “Gentlemen, I put it to a vote—do you accept Lover Boy Aiken as the newest member of the Death Dealers?” Steve interrupted himself. “Wait, I don't like the handle ‘Lover Boy;' he should put all that shit behind him,” he mused, grinning. “Gentlemen, do you accept Ned ‘Crash' Aiken as a Death Dealers member?”

Gagliano shook a can of beer and opened it in Ned's face, covering him in a shower of foam. There was a huge roar as the other men joined in. Johansson, who was already profoundly drunk, picked Ned up, put him on his massive shoulders and spun him around a few times, before tottering and almost falling down. After regaining his balance, he placed Ned as gently as he could on Steve's pool table.

“Tonight, gentlemen,” Steve announced. “We party.”

At about the same time Ned showed up at Foxes, Vladimir went to his locker at the blast furnace and grabbed the knapsack. It raised no eyebrows when Vladimir took the bag into the steel factory. Not only was he a very large man who consumed enormous amounts of food and often brought big bags full of bread and sausages into work, but Vladimir was also well known as someone who was not to be messed with. Such was his reputation that he could bring a herd of school children into the factory, and nobody would have the courage to say anything about it.

When his dinner break rolled around, Vladimir went back to his locker. He waited a good ten minutes until the other guys retrieved their lunches before he went into the room. He grabbed two bags—the knapsack Ned had given him and a plastic shopping bag he had stuffed full of kielbasa and crusty bread. He wolfed down the meal and carried the knapsack to his work station. He noticed that Gordon, the guy who worked next to him, saw him. Vladimir stared him down.

Once he was sure the shift had gotten back up to speed again, Vladimir heaved the knapsack into the furnace full of molten metal. Tyler Heath's head, hands, and every part of the mostly nylon knapsack other than the metal pulltabs on its zippers disintegrated in midair just before they would have hit the molten metal.

Vladimir looked over at Gordon and saw fear in his eyes. Vladimir grinned and knew it was all over and done with. He'd made $1,100 for just five seconds' work.

You could say that Ned Aiken's road to Steve Schultz and the Death Dealers began with his twelfth grade English teacher, Mr. Lambert.

“I'm not supposed to say this—no teacher is—but I really, honestly don't think you will ever amount to anything,” Ned's English teacher shouted at him in the hall. “I really don't think you ever will.”

Ned thought Mr. Lambert had had it in for him since Ned had corrected him on some detail in geography class in ninth grade and all the kids laughed at him. Three years later, Lambert was getting his long-simmering licks in. He had been trying his hardest to impart to the class what his teacher's guide told him was the enduring influence of T.S. Eliot's “The Wasteland,” when Ned and his crew erupted into gales of laughter. Lambert knew Ned was the ringleader, so he pulled him out of class for a discussion.

“Seriously, I don't think you ever, ever will amount to anything unless you straighten up and fly right,” Lambert spouted as he turned bright red.

Ned looked at Lambert long and hard. He was short—maybe five-foot-six—and bald, with a shoulder-length fringe of hair surrounding his big, freckly scalp. He wore thick, dark blue worsted slacks—which had that day's brown paper lunch bag in the back pocket every afternoon—and a checkered, western-style shirt he thought made him look cool.

Lambert lived two blocks away from Ned, so Ned knew that he'd been through two failed marriages and was living with a borderline obese woman whose children wouldn't speak to him. He drove a seventeen-year-old Subaru that sounded like it was farting every time he pressed the gas, and he had a hobby of flying radio-controlled airplanes.

Ned normally zoned out when the teachers criticized or scolded him. But this time, he hung on Lambert's every word. And as he listened, Ned realized that Lambert's advice—at its very best—would land Ned exactly where Lambert himself was; if he worked hard, applied himself—straightened up and flew right—he could be just like Lambert.

The realization made him laugh out loud, and Lambert exploded with anger. “I'm gonna expel you!” he shouted.

Ned just stared at him with a smirk. “You can't do that,” he said. “I
know
you can't do that.”

Lambert stammered. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, tough guy, I can't expel you, but I can fail you,” he taunted and grinned broadly.

It wasn't much of a threat: Ned was already failing every course except Phys Ed and Calculus. He thought hard on what he should do next. Punching Lambert would have gotten him expelled for sure—exactly what Lambert wanted. So Ned did what he thought would bother the teacher most. He walked away, more determined than ever to use everything in his power to not end up like Mr. Lambert.

Ned gravitated to the unofficial smoking area just outside the school fence. He was surprised to see none of his friends there yet, so he just sat there, thinking.

Eventually, two of his best friends, Gareth and Cameron, came out laughing. “Mr. Aiken . . . you're never the first one out here,” said Cameron. “What's up?”

“Kicked out of Lambert's . . . again.”

“Yeah, he's such a dick,” Gareth said.

“This time's permanent.”

“What'd you do?”

“Same ol', same ol'.”